crispy lungs. roads and shameless salutes to bobby dylan.
Get
Poor us then. Poor them and poor car crash, poorsad-eyed Lady of the News Flash and poor, poor surly
smirk of glass. Surely. Poor collide. Poor smack of faces
with each snide
streak of concrete, poor leaking
blood dash - poor complete Lossness.
Poor faceless. Poor unspeak. Pouring
rain then. (Poor wordplay). Oh how cheap, how
bloody cheap. How cheap and messful.
Poor weeping lump of limpness, poor limbs. Pourful and
how drenched. How drenched. How damp and soaking. Damp us
then. Damp them and damp car crash. Poor
dampful lungs - poor damp, soaking lung-knots.
This is a bad place, somebody has dried the herds of flowers
so that their petals look like toasted butterfly wings.
Here is any lovely specimen of bridges over motorways, or
here is this - this
is whole, or this is you admiting you spent your last fiver
on a few eloquent boxes of lightbulbs and matches. Tomothy you
musn't lie. Tomothy tell us - were those her fingernails or
just frogspawn? Today Tomothy, today.
Tomothy believe me because I don't doubt shame on
Thursdays. I do not doubt that The Last Supper was a picnic
wrenched from clotting oceans - but are those the noises we
should make, or just the smudges of blustery insects? Get out,
get out please.
Get out then.
I do not doubt your promises, but my legs hurt and I
keep feeling that my eyes are bald.
After cups of tea or a pub. The cryings. Cry
us then. Cry them and cry car crash. Cry sad-
eyed Lady of the News Flash.
And then you spoke a bit. And said how they really were
quite fragile.
Poetry by Claire
Read 1047 times
Written on 2005-08-04 at 19:58
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